Dressed In Your Pyjamas In the Grand Salon
by darthsydious
Summary: When Mycroft questions Sherlock's acquaintances, usually they look frightened and scuttle. Mycroft brings the St. Barts pathologist in for questioning and is rather surprised at the outcome.


Molly sat, fidgeting her hands in her lap, looking at her slipper-clad feet, willing the Monty-Python bunny slippers away. She shut her eyes, counted to ten, and then opened them. Nope. Still there.

And still in a very fancy room, tied to a chair, before a roaring fire place.

Well.

If she had to be kidnapped, it could've been worse.

She did wish it wasn't in her polka-dot flannel pyjamas and bunny slippers though. And she did wish the zip ties binding her wrists didn't cut into her skin.

A door on the far end opened and closed. A tall, thin man with a pointy nose and beady eyes entered, reading a portfolio.

"Molly Hooper, currently working in St. Barts-" he looked up, eyes dull suddenly sparked, and he looked her up and down, frowning. Realization dawned, and he rolled his eyes. Without a word to her, he crossed the room, opened the door motioning a person inside.

A beautiful woman followed him in, stopping at the open doorway. They spoke quietly, heads together. Molly could hear them perfectly though.

"_When I said to bring her here, I did not mean in a sack in the trunk, good God," _

"_You said expeditiously, Mr. Holmes-"_ Molly looked up at that, pushing a lock of hair from her eyes. The man looked sharply back at her, and then at the woman near him.

"_Nevertheless,"_  
_"I'll see they are reprimanded."_ And the lovely woman was gone again, shooting a sympathetic look to Molly before shutting the door behind her.

In a moment, the thin man was standing before her again, this time taking the scissors from the desk; he cut the ties around her wrists, tossing the plastic aside.

"Where were we?" he asked. "Ah. Yes. Molly Hooper."

"Yes?" he frowned again.

"You don't seem afraid, having been kidnapped in the middle of the night taken to a strange place."

"It's hard to be afraid when you're wearing rabbit slippers with pointy teeth," she said, attempting some kind of humor. He quirked an eyebrow.

"I'll keep that in mind."

"What is it you want?" she asked. He paused in pacing before her.

"I should ask you the same thing, Miss Hooper." The pleasant smile disappeared and he lunged upon the chair, hands on the armrests, capturing her there. His eyes were like fire as he drew close to her, only inches from her face. "You are acquainted with Sherlock Holmes," he spoke low; his voice terrible and she had no alternative but to shrink back in the chair. "Miss Hooper, for your safety, if you value your life, if you value the lives of your family, you will cease in supplying him. I paid off the others, and I can pay off you. If you refuse, I will see to it your records erased, your doctorate revoked with a plea to insanity. Do not answer, simply look frightened, and nod."

"Supplying him with what…exactly?" she asked softly. Mycroft almost frowned at her again, if not for the fact that he'd frowned twice already. Three would be repetitious.

"I beg your pardon?"

"You said stop supplying him…I see to it he has all sorts," Mycroft's look of confusion transformed into one of horror, until she spoke again: "arms, fingers, hearts, livers, brains are harder to come by, but if I can get a head to him-"

"Miss Hooper-" Mycroft pinched the bridge of his nose. "I am not speaking of cadavers, I am talking of opiates. Cocaine, morphine, whatever it is you are supplying him-"

"What?!" she gasped, staring at him now, looking, to his surprise, quite insulted. "You think I'm sneaking him-" she drew herself up to her full height in the chair "Mr. Holmes, I am _not_ supplying Sherlock with _drugs_, when I pulled him out of that hell-hole last time I made him promise not to go back there again, and I promise him I could keep him occupied." She flushed only briefly. "I get him cadavers for his experiments, access to the morgue and the lab. It keeps him busy and less-likely to go back to…unsavory activities." Mycroft looked the woman up and down. "If…if this is about me doctoring the paperwork, or giving him access, I'm sorry-"

"Miss Hooper that isn't-"

"But I won't stop letting him-" they both spoke at once, then stopped, looking at each other curiously.

"You won't?" Mycroft asked, and Molly worried her bottom lip a moment.

"No. I won't. He isn't hurting anything. It's keeping him clean and…and I like to watch him work. His experiments are interesting, what he tells me of them anyway."

Mycroft stared at her.

Nobody liked his brother. Nobody liked him. Yet here this woman sat (in his grand salon in her pyjamas no less), not quite afraid of him, and apparently in love with his brother. Good grief.

"I would appreciate it, Miss Hooper, if you would go on supplying my brother with cadavers, whatever it is he wishes access to the lab, or morgue, whatever. The paperwork will be taken care of, rest assured you are not in trouble."

"May I ask a favor?" he nodded after a moment.

"Will you please untie me?" he realized suddenly her wrists her not tied, but her frame was still strapped to the chair.

"Oh…em…apologies," he went around the back of the chair, working the knots out. She rubbed her arms where the rope pinched, sighing a little. "My car will take you home," he said.

"That's it?" she asked, he paused, halfway across the room.

"That's it."

"No 'sorry for kidnapping you' or apologies for accusing me of dealing drugs?"

"I make no apologies," he said, looking down his nose at her. "Least of all to my brother's…friends," he wrinkled his nose at the word. Molly forced back a smile.

"Too bad," she folded her arms across her middle. "I like to use my friends as guinea pigs for my baking experiments." He slowly turned back around.

"Your…_what?_"

"I bake," she said with a quirked eyebrow. "It seems to be the only thing Sherlock will eat when he's on a case. He likes the fried mars bars best, but lately I've been trying dipped cheesecakes." Mycroft swallowed hard, and he forced his expression into a perfect blank.

"My brother is the one to indulge," he shrugged. "I fail to see how this could interest me."

"Because you've got chocolate on your cuff," Molly said, pointing to his wrist. Mycroft looked down, horror written across his face. Molly ducked her head, trying to hide her smirk.

"The car is ready," the woman appeared again.

"See Miss Hooper home," Mycroft said, doing his best to stare down Molly. She met his gaze, though there was a twinkle of humor in her eyes. She was mocking him! Mycroft glared at her, caught between respect for the woman who was looking after his brother, as well as fury that she had so easily disarmed him.

It wasn't until two weeks later that he was certain she was mocking him when a parcel was delivered. On the bone china plate sat a small, beautiful cheesecake, cherry chocolate ganache drizzled over the top, and a small note attached.

"_Dear Mr. Holmes,_

_I hope you'll like this one, I've been working with chocolate sauces and fruits lately. Think of it as a peace offering and as a sign that I bear no ill-will for your kidnapping me, insulting me, and tying me to a chair. – Molly Hooper"_

He glared at the cake, at the note, and the fork that she had included in the parcel.

"No ill-will indeed." He muttered.


End file.
